Hanging Colin
by SarahSwan7
Summary: A little one-shot about Colin's death.


It was Harry that received the call.

His office was well spaced and organised, with many a filing cabinet and personal decorations on the shelves behind his desk, mainly sculptures. His favourite was a wooden horse the colour of burnt sugar, with sleek legs and an intricately carved face.

The red walls were somewhat a comfort, the large glass window allowing him to watch his workers at a safe distance. His desk was piled with documents, folders, letters he hadn't opened, reports he hadn't signed. A shred of him felt that maybe, if he kept his head down and finally answered his emails and cleared his desk and stayed sat in his comfortable swivel chair, that he could ignore what went on outside those four walls.

He often scolded himself for thinking like this; felt it naive. But Harry never stopped hoping that there would be a blissfully long series of days and weeks where everything went according to plan.

"Harry Pearce," he said, clasping the phone in his hand and reading a paper on his desk, digesting the words thoughtfully. Then the voice on the other end of the phone forced his eyes to stop moving across the page. He blinked once, twice.

Should he say thank you? It seemed rather odd to thank them for the news. Instead Harry replaced the phone in its holder and said nothing, rubbing a hand across his face. His eyes drifted back to the paper for just a second, but didn't comprehend the text – it may as well have been blank page. It was an irrelevant addition to his already exhausting schedule.

Harry pushed aside the paper and left his office, pulling the door shut behind him. He took a second to lean against the solid metal of the sliding door that separated him from his team. Then he coughed once, awkwardly, dislodging any sound of sorrow that may have settled in preparation to tell Malcolm. He had to be the first to know.

Had Malcolm been sitting alone, fiddling with wires at a computer or tapping away at a keyboard, Harry tried to convince himself that it would have been easier. But Ruth? Ruth was with Malcolm now, sifting through papers in the meeting room, sharing a joke. Their faces were happy and expectant as Harry approached, waiting for his question or next task. Instead he had to tell them that Colin's body had been found.

At first, disbelief. Malcolm blinked solemnly and frowned a little. Ruth's smile drew back and her eyes furrowed. Harry didn't look directly at either of them as their faces descended into a real, harrowing sadness.

Harry felt as if he should say something; a word of reassurance perhaps. But there was nothing that could be said at the moment to make the situation even a little more pleasant, for either of them. He walked away steadily, pretending to himself that he didn't notice Malcolm's hunched shoulders or the tears that had formed in Ruth's eyes.

Harry felt weak and foolish for not telling Adam face to face. He knew that he would be back any minute; probably just strolling up to Thames House right now, shoes tapping the pavement, hair rippled by the breeze. But Harry pulled out his phone, dialled quickly, delivered the news. He heard his colleague's footsteps stop and the tight, drawn breath that he took, before the beep that told that he had hung up. Harry pictured Adam just outside the entrance, scraping a hand through his hair, trying to compose the anger and upset that now coursed through him.

Harry collapsed back into the chair in his office and picked up the piece of paper that he had been reading, trying to convince himself that he was understanding what was written.

"They got one." Collingwood's voice was cold and carried clearly across the dark, metallic room.

"Got one what?" asked Jocelyn Myers tiredly, disregarding whatever Collingwood was about to say.

"A spook. Hanging in a forest." Collingwood laughed once, sharply. "A techie."

Jocelyn looked up. "What was he worth to them?"

Ros watched this conversation from the other side of the room and flinched at her father's tone. She was already having doubts about her position in this. She didn't think they'd go so far to kill one of them.

Ros had met Adam briefly and frankly didn't think much of him at first. But she could tell from the way he spoke and his smile, occasional but genuine, that he was a decent guy. She imagined him pacing – she always got some satisfaction of thinking of her superiors pacing, whereas she would always sit calmly, fingers interlaced in her lap, just as she was now. Yes, she definitely pictured Adam pacing through Thames House at the news of his colleague's death. A part of her silently willed Adam to take a seat and calculate his next move.

"Not a lot, in terms of rank, obviously. But you know how sentimental Spooks get. I've heard they've got a little piece of glass in a cosy cottage where they engrave the names of _the fallen_."

Jocelyn laughed loudly. "How bloody lovely. Let's see how much this has set them back." He returned his eyes from Collingwood to the files in front of his, clicking his pen once and scrawling over the map of the air traffic control centre.

Ros pulled her phone from her pocket and typed a message. _I'm sorry._

The words glared up at her. They seemed pathetic and not even mildly appropriate. Sorry doesn't reverse a murder.

"Who's that, sweetheart?" asked her father, his eagle eyes fixed on her face.

"Just another contact from Six. Useless bastard," she lied smoothly, smiling at her father before hitting delete on the message. His eyes were still restless though. She stood, smoothing her trousers with her hands.

"So, which of your men got this pathetic, so-called Spook then?" she asked, feeling the words burn on her tongue. It was harsh, even for her, but she needed her father to believe that he could trust her.

"Jenson did," was the reply.

"Clever of you to employ him. He's good," she added, a tight smile stretching her face.

"I'm glad you think so, darling." A smirk spread across her father's face as he carried on writing.

Adam's house wasn't cold, but no-one removed their coats. Zaf sat silently, flicking his phone in his hand, wondering whether to call Jo or not. She was the only one left who hadn't heard about Colin. Zaf wondered how she was doing. It was her first major undercover operation and her responsibility was great: looking after the prime minister's son would be no easy task.

"He wasn't just a geek who did crossword puzzles; he was my bloody best friend!" Malcolm spat. Zaf looked up, surprised at the outburst. Malcolm was always so meek, quiet, understanding. Zaf winced as he noticed the deep frown lines etched into Malcolm's forehead and the crinkles around his saddened eyes. He got up to leave, but Adam stood too, gripping his shoulders. Zaf rose instinctively, ready to intervene, but Adam's tone was calm.

"Smile," he instructed. Malcolm's face was blank for a few seconds, before he lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile that didn't meet his eyes at all.

"Good," said Adam, quietly, letting go of Malcolm's shoulders.

It wasn't good. Colin was gone. He had been an invaluable member of the team, and they'd been naive to think he'd never get hurt just because he wasn't a field officer. No-one was safe in this profession, no matter what they lulled themselves into believing.

What sickened Harry the most as he left Adam's flat was the thought of the body. Harry rubbed his hands together and breathed lungfuls of the chilled night air and thought of Colin's lonely form, swinging in the trees, drenched by the cold. He wondered who it was that found him and took his body away, efficiently, without a hint of knowledge as to how important Colin really was.

He could go to the mortuary, of course. He could pat his friend's still, silent shoulder and mutter a few words. But Harry felt like a coward as he was enveloped in the warmness of a cab, driven to his comfortable home, when Colin would never again get such a simple luxury.

He knew there wouldn't be another time where he laid eyes on Colin. He was gone now; a silent name on a sheet of glass.

Harry closed his eyes from the bustle of London rushing past the windows and willed himself to forget.


End file.
